About a million refugees from the civil war in Syria are believed to be living in Lebanon. Many of them are surviving in flimsy camps amid freezing temperatures in the Bekaa Valley. Meanwhile Lebanese patience with the visitors is wearing thin.

The small stove at the centre of Um Abed's tent burns rubbish that is collected from the street. Acrid smoke hangs in the air. It stings your throat. It burns your eyes.

Her three-year-old daughter, Mariam, has developed asthma from the poisonous fumes. But this, Um Abed knows, this was the best chance she had of protecting her from the sub-zero temperatures outside.

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In this makeshift camp in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley - and in thousands of others like it in the country - Syrian refugees are facing the same miserable conditions.

The shelters are pitiful. They are made of tarpaulin, plywood and potato sacks - no match for the most violent storm to hit the region for two decades.

Some of the structures collapsed in the blizzard. Icy water seeps through the sides of others, soaking blankets and mattresses. Um Abed uses cooking pots to catch drops from the leaking roof.

Efforts by aid agencies mean that few have died this winter. But as the snow persists, people are getting ill.

Close to Um Abed's home, parents queue with their sick children outside a tent where Melhem Harmoush, a visiting doctor from a Lebanese charity is holding an impromptu clinic.

Mothers hold their infants close as they wait, trying to protect them from the bitter wind. A father comforts his daughter - no older than five, her hair in plaits - through a violent coughing fit.

Few can afford the proper clothing to withstand the cold. Most wear the clothes in which they left Syria.

Women who fled in the summer shiver in thin gowns and sandals. Some of the children have only socks on their feet. Others tread barefoot through the slush and mud.

Dr Harmoush works fast. A quick listen through the stethoscope, a look inside the mouth, a hand across the forehead to gauge temperature.

He diagnoses flu, tonsillitis, bronchitis, pneumonia.

The storm is only the latest burden on the Syrian refugees, whose country is locked in a seemingly endless war.

Even though the number of people fleeing the conflict is still growing, the level of aid has been reduced dramatically.

United Nations food vouchers have been cut by a third to just £12.50 ($19) per person per week. So Um Abed can no longer afford drinking water. Buckets hang from the roof of the shelter to collect rain.

To make ends meet the whole family has to work - Um Abed and her husband cannot find well-paid jobs. The children are sent to toil for long hours in the surrounding fields. The best they can hope to earn is £2.50 ($4) per day.

It's difficult work, Um Abed tells me, but if they don't do it, the boss of the settlement will evict them from their shelter for failing to meet their rent.

At the beginning of the war, Lebanese communities mostly welcomed Syrian refugees. Some even offered rooms in their homes for free. But as the influx continues, and the conflict prepares to enter its fifth year, that hospitality has soured into resentment.